Self-loathing is a trademarked attribute associated not exclusive to me. This path is taken not for the want to be liked but for the want to find a way to like the existing self. There’s no need to expound on motivation any further, as by doing so only subject us to teeter a tightrope that always lead to a tragic fall midway into the pit of ignorance. The imbalance is caused by ignorance, as it tries to qualify an elitist, divisive and corrosive pursuit to brandishing some semblance of uniqueness or establish an exclusive club.
Instead, I wish to explore why self-loathing became this common description amongst the many that relentlessly fights getting boxed in. Or as Cobain succinctly puts it “I Hate Myself and I Want to Die”. As if writing (poetry) or wanting to be one is akin to an astrological sign that can predetermine who you are with broad stroke adjectives and predict who you’re compatible with.
It took me awhile not to hate myself and what I write about after I write it… or at least, tone it down a notch to a level that something actually gets out, something actually got done. I don’t know why when being hit by a burning desire to create always lead to this equally active drive to destroy… or at least bury the output somewhere the brain or the heart won’t miss it.
Giving in to the urge feels like it’s a natural thing to do. Like it’s a part of the process, the fate of creation… The life cycle demands our eventual demise… right?
Too morbid.
Maybe, as I personally intend, every line is an attempt to open up and converse. When the last word drops and there is nothing more to say, the conversation ends. But unlike dialogue that let you bask awhile in after glow of mutual satisfaction, the string of words by pen on paper is a monologue. There seeps more guilt than pleasure because after a crafted train of thought leaves you, it can leave you more lonely than you did before. There’s always that, honesty exposes you as vulnerable.
What did the cloud feel after a torrential rain? It felt empty because it poured itself away.
Too dramatic.
But I’ll leave it. Out there… unprotected.
It’s not like a reckless tweet that will come back to haunt me. Or maybe it will, given the right contrast and by subtraction of context. I’m running around in circles, holding on to the string of my initial thought, looking for the other end, hoping to tie this in, tight. I started with the premise of why self-loathing emanates at the end of every ending. So, maybe, not ending this, not finding the proper answer will make me avoid the consequential emotion that overtakes as I drop the last word in…
danDAman 